Five people were sitting around a table on the
promenade outside the local cafe on a quiet part of the north Kent coast. This
was a convenient meeting place for the 'think-tank' of wisdom, wit and
knowledge that talked over, but never fully resolved, a great many issues.
"Where's Jack?"
asked Martin who had just arrived.
"He went off on one of
his dangerous adventures," said Rita. "I am not sure where. Yemen I
think. You know, to the south of Saudi Arabia."
"Yemen? Yes. I remember
now. Sitting round the campfire slurping camel soup, wasn't it? And eating
camel tongue while dodging bullets," joked Martin as he recalled the
amusing scene that had taken place only two weeks before. "Still sounds
like real fun!"
Jack Williamson was about 50
years old, stood over 6 feet tall and was slim in build. He was a somewhat
mysterious character, but gave the air of 'establishment'. Very British. Jack
was a regular member of the group when he wasn't away on one of his trips that
usually lasted three-to-four weeks at a time. Jack was well travelled and very
knowledgeable about many things. His manner, although charming, was also very
disarming. Quite deceptive. As a 'consultant', Jack often did work for the UK
Government. An obscure line of work for obscure government departments, which
took him to various countries where most people would never consider going:
Afghanistan, Iraq, the more unstable parts of Africa and now Yemen. This had
resulted in a couple of planned absences already this season.
Len appeared carrying a tray
of teas and biscuits.
"Oh, hello, Martin,"
Len greeted warmly."You're late on parade. Again."
Len put the tray down on the
table and offered to get Martin a drink. As he turned to return to the cafe,
Len added
"Or would you like the
money instead?"
It was asked in such a way as
to clearly be meant as a light-hearted comment.
"The tea will be fine,
thanks, Len. And don't forget the sugar this time. Or the spoon," said
Martin trying unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh, but continuing the banter that
had been taking place for several weeks now.
Although the afternoon meeting
at the 'freehold', as this particular place had become known, was a regular
occurrence throughout the summer months, the group changed daily as different
people were always sitting in. Sometimes the group was as few as three or as
many as ten. Today it was just six.
The lady known as 'Runner
Bean' due to her fondness of vegetables, raised her hands and pushed her palms
forwards. She then proceeded to draw her hands apart in an attempt to
demonstrate some abstract point, revealing slender fingers. Finally, she picked
up a half-eaten cheese sandwich and discarded it, throwing it onto the sandy
beach causing a flurry of activity amongst the ubiquitous seagulls as they
scuttled across the beach.
It would be necessary to move
over to the promenade railings in a few days' time to avoid the shade cast by
the cafe as the sun noticeably slid further down the sky by the same time every
day. The afternoon temperature was dropping very quickly now as the autumn
approached.
A sinister looking vessel
glided quietly and slowly into the bay. It was not a large vessel. Not a ship,
but it still looked very menacing. White stencilled lettering painted on the
drab grey port side bow of the vessel announced simply "H.M.
Customs", though the small cannon positioned on the foredeck made the
vessel look military and very warlike. Amidships was positioned a tall tower
sporting all sorts of aerials and dishes suggesting a sophisticated
communications capability.
"What is that ship doing
here?" asked Martin as he replaced his binoculars on the circular table in
front of him next to his mug of hot tea. "Any ideas?"
A brief silence was broken by
Sonia who said:
"Nobody seems to know, but
it has been seen several times before and it always appears around the time of
a high-tide in the late afternoon. Maybe it's looking out for terrorist
activity. Something like that. And they don't come round for a cup of tea or a
chat either!"
"When the ship has
stopped, watch the activity on the water," advocated Bruno, Sonia's
husband. "A speedboat and a jet-ski will be lowered from a derrick at the
stern of the vessel and they will head off towards the shore and remain moored
there for a couple of hours or so. The ship stays anchored and waits off the
coast. By morning the vessel is always gone, so the two small craft must return
under cover of darkness. It's a real mystery. Quite scary really to know this
is happening right here in our neighbourhood."
"How do you know all
this?" asked Martin.
"We've been watching them
over a period of a few weeks, but it's the same pattern every time. The
speedboat and jet-ski stay moored just out in the bay, but we've never seen
where the occupants go. However long or hard we watch they seem to just vanish.
We've called these craft F.A.S.T vessels: Furtive Activities of Surface Traffic. It fits the behaviour
very well."
"Did you know that Her
Majesty's Customs and the Inland Revenue are now connected? They could be looking
for smuggled goods or illegal immigrants."
"That's a good point,
Rita," said Len.
"Aren't they the same
thing?" asked Runner Bean as she waved her arms frantically. "You
know - people smuggling."
"That's a good point,
too, Zelda."
This wasn't her real name, but
Len liked to give people nicknames. Len had one too, though he had never heard
it.
"Do you think there could
be any connection between Jack's absences and the appearance of this customs
boat? I know it sounds a bit wacky," admitted Martin, "but it is a
possibility."
"Oh, Martin. You and your
conspiracy theories!" said Rita.
"I know it sounds
far-fetched, but we don't actually know where Jack is right now,"
continued Martin.
"We've had a postcard.
From Yemen," said Len.
"So?" asked Martin.
"Anyone can arrange for a card to be sent from anywhere. The card only
suggests the writer is in that place. It could have been written sometime
beforehand and posted from that country by anyone. After all, to get hold of a
genuine postcard should present no problem for a government agency, should it?
You see, it doesn't mean Jack posted it and it only suggests he is in
Yemen."
This resulted in a few raised
eyebrows and unsettled looks.
"Jack has a residence
nearby, doesn't he?" asked Martin.
"Yes. Around the coast in
the next bay, I believe," said Sonia.
"This could even involve
Jack," persisted Martin. "We don't actually know he is in Yemen. We
are only assuming that much."
"Are you suggesting Jack
is somehow in league with this vessel?" mused Len.
"Well," continued
Martin, "I am only connecting the facts that we have a person working in
some capacity for the Government and lives right along this coast. It's only a
few minutes walk around the bay from where the two boats are moored. It does
make an interesting coincidence. And remember, the writing on the side of the
boat only suggests it's Her Majesty's Customs. Ask yourself if you think it
actually looks like a customs vessel. I really don't know what such a vessel
should look like, but with that mid-deck tower and its array of aerials and
dishes..."
Martin's voice trailed off and
then he added:
"And that cannon! It
looks a lot more than just an innocent inshore customs outfit to me. And Jack
isn't here is he!"
Silence. The tension in the
atmosphere was almost palpable.
"Look. There are the two
boats," declared Sonia.
As if on cue, the speedboat
and the jet-ski appeared from around the far side of the mysterious vessel and
gave chase to each other for a brief while before speeding off towards
shallower water, the speedboat leading the way with the jet-ski in hot pursuit.
The two small craft seemed to have appeared from nowhere, but they could not
have come from anywhere else but the customs boat. Each was crewed by a
solitary occupant and the tall jet-ski rider was dressed in a black full body
wet-suit with a mask completely covering his face.
Both boats disappeared around
the point towards the next bay.
The bay where Jack had his
residence.
© Louis Brothnias (2005)